


Héritage illégal des mousquetaires

by mohinikapuahi



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Demon Hunters, Demons, F/M, M/M, Magic, The Fates - Freeform, Vampires, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-03 19:17:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8727010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mohinikapuahi/pseuds/mohinikapuahi
Summary: Magic was outlawed in France, but what if it really existed, right under everyone's noses?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how fast this will happen but hoping to post at least weekly, preferably bi-weekly. Hope you enjoy.

D’artagnan flicked his hair back behind his ear and tried to pull his focus back, again. He was tired and sad and angry and just wanted to find the man who had killed his father. The emotions swirling through his soul were distracting him from focusing his powers on his true intent. The wispy tendrils of magic wove around him lazily shimmering in the darkness waiting to do his bidding. 

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep cleansing breath. Opening them, he gracefully passed his hands, palm down, over a deep violet charoite orb, light passing through the crystal in smoky puffs until an image began to show itself. He smiled wryly, of course, this Athos would be in the most populated city in France. Exhaling slowly, he released his hold on the magic that shimmered in the orb, his dark eyes watching as the light of his power slowly disappeared into a single bright point and extinguished. 

Sinking to one knee in front of the table, D’artagnan thanked the God and Goddess for their assistance, and dismissed the elemental guardians before he reached over and extinguished the burning candle by pinching the wick between his fingers. Standing, he lifted the corners of the black velvet cloth that covered the edge of the table and folded them respectfully around the Orb. 

He patted the velvet bundle lovingly before slipping it into his gear. Until yesterday, this orb had borne his father’s magic. Tears welled in his eyes as he remembered the many times he had watched his father summon information through the crystal. His father had been a powerful witch. A good witch. They had a home in Gascony but Alexandre D’artagnan believed in sharing his skills and powers. He believed that magic was a power that should be used, not abused and went out of his way to help other witches defeat evil. That had been his downfall. 

Witchcraft was outlawed in 17th century France. However, it was common knowledge that there were witches and demons. Many believed that Cardinal Richelieu, the country’s First Minister was a demon, but as he was also the most powerful proponent for eradicating the Craft in France it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever discover the truth. Under Richelieu’s iron fist, he guided the King, known as the Royal detector of magic, and used the King’s powers to help the demonic underworld to flourish as the advocates for pure magic were forced underground and into hiding. 

Alexandre D’artagnan, however, refused to stop sharing his skills and powers. He did whatever he could to help other witches defeat demons. He shared whatever knowledge he could to fledgling witches. He travelled the length and breadth of his homeland teaching his son and strengthening the light magic of his countrymates. He had long believed he had been marked for a magical assassination, but Alexandre would never turn down a plea for help. 

D’artagnan had been blessed with the sight, that’s what his papa had called it. D’artagnan had considered it more of a curse when he was stricken with a debilitating headache and the image of evil happenings in his head. D’Artagnan had known it was coming, he had begged and pleaded with him to stop, or at least keep a low profile. At papa’s refusal, D’artagnan had done the only thing a good son could do. He had become his father’s apprentice and protector. Even that hadn’t been good enough. 

He had been caring for their horses when his father had been confronted by a witch hunter. By the time D’artagnan had smelt the crackling sulphur of a magical strike on the air, it was already too late. The bright orange flash that followed the scent had made his blood run cold. He couldn’t make his feet move fast enough to run as his mind wanted to, but as he rounded the corner of the Inn, he saw his father prostrate in the middle of the muddy street, a pool of crimson pooling beneath him. Skidding to a halt at Papa’s side D’artagnan pulled his father into his arms and held him, tears mixing with the rain on his cheeks as he watched his father struggle to live. For the first time in his life D’artagnan wished he had inherited some of his mother’s powers, maybe he could have used them to do something, anything, to save his father. 

“Who did this, Papa?” D’artagnan begged. 

“Athos.” Alexandre breathed. 

He lifted one hand clumsily to touch his son’s face, saying goodbye with words his lips could no longer form. With his last burst of strength, he pressed his palm to his son’s and felt his powers transferring from him to his apprentice. His soul eased with the transition of his magical knowledge, Alexandre’s smile was fleeting as he drew his last breath. D’Artagnan fell forward against his father’s chest, sobbing his sorrow at losing his beloved father.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic was outlawed in France, but what if it really existed, right under everyone's noses?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the early chapters will mirror aspects of the show that are important to the story, after that they will diverge.

D’Artagnan was exhausted by the time he reached Paris, the transfer of his father’s magic was overwhelming, and not only was he trying to control the feelings of power coursing through his veins, powers he had never yet felt, but his mind was consumed with rage and the need for revenge against the man that slaughtered his father. Things only got worse as he reached the outskirts of the city. The aura of the magical beings in the city assaulted his senses as he rode into the city. His father had often told him he could feel the magic like a heart beating when he was around other magical beings and D’artagnan had never believed his papa. He thought it was some sort of hallucination on his father’s part, trying to make more of the craft than it really was. Now he knew how wrong those thoughts had been. It was just like his own latent powers, they had been miniscule compared to his fathers, he could perform simple glamors and spells that were little more than parlour tricks, but with his father’s powers and knowledge now coursing through him, his new powers had yet to present themselves to him and to be honest the possibilities frightened him.

Realising that he was in no state to confront a murderer, D’Artagnan found himself a room at an inn. A ‘clean’ inn he was assured but the cleanliness of the establishment was not his first thought. He had walked through the door and the constant ebb and flow of magical intent had eased for the first time since he had set foot in the city. He did not have much money but he would have paid double what the wizened up old innkeeper charged. 

Pausing in the room he rented only to wash the road dust off his face and hands, D’Artagnan returned to the ground floor and took a seat in booth tucked into the corner of the room. Ordering a mug of ale, he was drinking the watered-down concoction when the fine hairs on his arms stood on end as his skin prickled with magical power. His skin was like gooseflesh as he pressed the mug back on the table top, eyes drawn to the three people who had just bustled through the door his fingers tingling with the power that enveloped the room. 

Sitting back against the heavy leather bench, D’Artagnan feigned interest in his mug and watched the new arrivals from under his hair. The man was a nobody, full of bluff and hot air. A stout Spaniard with a bad attitude, probably a noble of some description. The young man with him bags under his arms heavy and cumbersome, was obviously the hired help struggling to do his duty. The third, however, was the source of the crackling energy, a beautiful woman, her features glowing with radiance, her fancy gown concealing the rest of her body from his view. She was a magical being, D’artagnan was sure of it. The air practically sizzled with her power and she made no effort to hide it. 

“Draw me a bath.” The woman ordered the innkeepers wife. “Make sure the water is clean, I won’t bathe in other’s scum.” 

“You’ll pay extra for clean, Madame.” D’artagnan offered, his gaze never leaving the woman as he spoke. 

“Are you addressing me, Sir?” the Spaniard stalked towards D’artagnan, his meaty fist resting on the sword at his hip. 

“Not unless your name is Madame?” D’Artagnan’s eyebrow quirked at the question. 

Time seemed to slow as the man turned towards his female companion, “Forgive me, Milady while I teach this Oaf some manners.” His sword was drawn before he turned back to face D’artagnan. He ran through his options in his head. Magic was forbidden, by punishment of death, especially in the city, he could easily cast a small spell, just enough to get him out of the predicament his helpful sarcasm had found him in. However, all he could see that doing was deepening the hole he had dug himself into. Revealing his powers, especially in the presence of the beautiful woman whose magic was still crackling in the air would be suicide. No. The only avenue he had was to fight or bluff his way out. Before the sword had time to clear its scabbard, D’Artagnan’s pistol was in his hand and pointed at the arrogant Spaniard. 

“You don’t want to do that.” D’Artagnan muttered. 

“Put your sword away, Mendoza.” The woman stepped closer, her eyes narrowed as she watched D’artagnan, assessing his threat even as she spoke. “He’s just a boorish thug, not worth your time or your sword.” 

Mendoza glanced at the woman and nodding his head sheathed his weapon. 

“You are lucky, inmundo maton. Milady has saved your worthless hide.” 

“Perhaps it is you that is lucky, Senor.” D’artagnan sneered at him, his gun still pointed at the leather clad chest.” 

D’artagnan stood his ground, his pistol clenched firmly in his hand as the Spaniard and his Lady swept their way through the inn and up the narrow staircase following the innkeeper’s wife to their rooms. 

Resuming his seat, D’artagnan half-heartedly sipped at the watery ale in his mug and showed even less interest in the even more watery stew that arrived and did little to live up to its glowing title of ‘speciality of the house’. After a few minutes, he gave up all pretense of interest and pushed them both aside. Sliding out of the booth, he turned toward the staircase, politely pressing his body against the banister as the woman from earlier started to make her way down the stairs. She didn’t change her own path, her voluminous skirts taking up most of the space, even as he pressed himself even more closely to the banister, the wood pressing painfully into his back. As she passed him he turned and started his progress anew. Until he heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked behind him. 

His hand flew to his own weapon, only to realize belatedly that the woman had taken it and that it was probably trained on his back. Or worse, his head. Taking a deep, fortifying breath he turned to his attacker. 

“Missing something?” she asked, gesturing for him to back up. “Where did you learn your magic?” 

“What magic?” D’artagnan schooled his features into a mask of innocence, he could feel her power and had little idea how to counteract it, “Magic is illegal, Madame.” 

“Don’t take me for a fool.” She breathed as his back hit his room door. “Who is your mentor?” 

“I have no mentor, Madame.” D’artagnan wasn't lying, his papa was dead. 

He pressed his body back against the door as she insinuated her body against his, her face pressing into the crook of his neck inhaling his scent before she lifted her head and swiped her lips against his mouth, her hand lowering to open his room door. She pushed him through the opening and landed on top of him on his bed.


End file.
